


The Fall of Hearts

by Steel



Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, Multi, Post-Book 14: A Memory of Light
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 19:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8414650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steel/pseuds/Steel
Summary: The Last Battle is won, or so it seems on the surface. Though most nations celebrate the Light's triumph, the Blight remains as corrupted as ever and Shadowspawn are still at large. Whispers are uncertain whether the Dragon Reborn and those who were with him at Shayol Ghul survived, but they hint at one of the Dragon Reborn’s childhood friends, known to most as Perrin Goldeneyes, having turned to the Shadow...





	1. Chapter 1

Faile’s eyes snapped open. The first thing she registered was pain, so startlingly intense that she inhaled sharply through clenched teeth. Bracing herself on the numerous pillows stacked behind her—she wondered, fleetingly, how she had come to be in a bed in the first place—she managed to sit up long enough to toss aside her blankets, then froze at the sight that met her eyes.

She was covered in bruises, dark black and purple splotches scattered across her thighs, exposed by her bunched-up shift, and on her arms now that she had them in view. Her left leg, bound and splinted, turned out to be the source of pain. Light, she did not even  _ remember  _ injuring herself—or, rather, breaking her leg. Gritting her teeth, she wriggled her toes experimentally, grimacing instantly at how sharply they throbbed. It was her shin that must be broken, she decided.

_ I suppose hobbling to the door is out of the question, _ she decided grudgingly, laying back against the pillows with an exasperated huff.

Though her exhaustion ran deep and, judging by how comfortable she found the bed, she certainly needed the rest, she could not remain idle. Her eyes took in her surroundings, noting the lavish furniture—gold and bronze on the mirrors, an Altaran lacquerwork desk, blown glass vases of deep red and orange hues, and a plush carpet decorated in elaborate scrollwork—lavish furniture, despite the room not being overtly large. Sunlight streamed through the open window, gauze curtains ruffling in the faint breeze. She guessed that it was afternoon, though without being able to see the sun’s position in the sky, it was only a rough estimate. But what  _ truly  _ caught her attention was the tangy smell of salt in the air hinting that, wherever she was, she was near the sea.

_ Where am I? _ she wondered, itching to peer out the window. But, considering that she could not even  _ walk _ and there was no one in sight—odd, that; if she had been brought here by someone who did not scrimp on luxury, wouldn’t they  _ want  _ to know when she woke up?—she realized that her only other alternative was to retrace her last steps, and try to puzzle out how she had come to be here. Her mouth pressed into a thin line of distaste, but she gritted her teeth determinedly.

The last thing she could recall before waking up in this room was lying in a shallow ditch. She had been pinned beneath her horse, the Trollocs pursuing her breaking off the chase—she did not know for certain if they had  _ stopped _ searching for her; she could only guess since she had, clearly, not been found by them—breaking off the chase when they could not locate her. In truth, what happened after she passed the Horn on to Olver was a blur in her mind, and she struggled to piece everything together.

She remembered her horse being shot out from underneath her, and tumbling to the ground—such a clumsy fall; her father would be ashamed, if he ever heard the tale—before she crawled into a nearby ditch. She had planned to use one of her own knives on herself, if the Trollocs captured her. Better to die than to risk revealing the Horn’s whereabouts under torture. But something heavy slammed into her so hard, she remembered, the pain... it must have been enough to make her pass out.

By all rights, considering what had happened to her, she probably shouldn’t even be  _ alive _ . Despite the sunlight, she shivered at the thought, wrapping her arms around herself.  _ Don’t think about that, _ she reminded herself.  _ Be grateful you can still draw breath. _

But her memories  _ still _ gave her no answer on how she had come to be here in the first place, wherever  _ here _ was, and who was responsible for it. Nor did it offer her any solace on whether the Last Battle had been won or not.  _ If I’m alive, we  _ must  _ have won, _ she told herself firmly.  _ Or else I would still be lying in that ditch. _ But there was no way to know for sure, not until she spoke with someone. Worry gnawed at her insides, worry and helplessness. She wiggled her toes again, even though she knew nothing about her broken leg would have changed, and hissed in pain. Well, it seemed as if getting up was  _ still _ out of the question.

Eventually, Faile must have drifted off to sleep, though she did not remember doing so. She only knew that she stirred awake when she felt the blankets she had discarded being laid across her again. Alarm welled up in her chest at no longer being alone, but she forced herself to keep breathing evenly. Pretending she was still asleep, she cracked an eye open. The room was dark, but moonlight provided enough illumination for her to spot a figure garbed in white looming above her, with close-cropped hair and familiar features.

“Bain?” she whispered, her eyes snapping open.

The figure jerked, but her sigh was one of relief. “I see you, Faile Bashere,” she said, and Faile thought she might sob with relief at hearing Bain’s voice again. “It is good that you did not wake from the dream yet.”

“So it is,” Faile sighed, pushing back against the pillows to sit up. Bain made a motion as if to stop her, but then helped her sit up straighter, so she did not jostle her leg too much. Faile’s hands gripped Bain’s, then, unwilling to let go.

“Light, it is so good to see you. Is Chiad here with you?” She realized belatedly that it was a foolish question; neither woman strayed far from the other.

“She is with Gaul.” Bain’s lips pursed into a thin line of distaste. “The fool man was off somewhere with... well, wherever he was, he has not woken up since. It had been days since then.” She paused, her hands squeezing Faile’s back. “It has been days since we found you, too.”

“Days? Light!” That would account for how weak she felt; if she had not eaten in days, it was no wonder it felt as if she could not tell left from right. “What news from Merrilor?”

Bain held her eyes for a moment. “Leafblighter’s Shadowspawn were defeated, the rest scattering,” she said, tone carefully neutral. “The Last Battle is won.”

Faile swallowed, relief battling with panic. “But...?” she whispered. She could not explain how she knew there was more, only that there was something in Bain’s voice that made dread pool in her stomach like acid.

Shaking her head, Bain released Faile’s hands, instead smoothing out some wrinkles in the blanket before she rose to pour Faile a cup of water. Faile drank gladly, and deeply, not realizing she had been so thirsty. Bain even poured her a second glass. But Faile fixed the  _ gai’shain _ with a steady, relentless gaze once she lowered the cup. She would  _ not _ be distracted by water, as refreshing as it was.

Several torturous moments later, Bain spoke. “All the prophecies spoke of how the land will flourish when the  _ Car’a’carn _ is victorious.” Her eyes returned to the blanket, her brow more wrinkled than the cloth itself. “But the Blight... remains.”

Faile remained silent, trying to put together what such a thing might mean. “Then we did not win,” she concluded, voice weak. She felt like she wanted to sick up, or perhaps that was because she had drank water too fast. “If the Dragon Reborn didn’t...”

Bain was silent, head still bowed. Faile could not help but stare at her, wondering what else the woman knew that she was not telling her. It had to be terrible, for her to be acting this way. Faile had known Bain for some time, knew that despite the  _ gai’shain _ robes she now wore that she was fierce, and not one who was easily shaken.

If Rand al’Thor had failed to save the world...

Fails began to shove the blankets aside.

Bain blinked in surprise. “What are you doing?”

“Getting up,” she grunted, though she slowed down to a snail’s pace when it came to handling her broken leg. She huffed in frustration, swatting her hands on the mattress. “Is there no one in this place who can spare an Aes Sedai? Where are we, for that matter? Last I recall, Merrilor was nowhere near the sea and—”

She abruptly fell silent when another figure loomed in the doorway, bathed in candlelight. Berelain, resplendent even in a simple black dress slashed with gold, her hawk-winged diadem resting amongst her curls, strode into the room followed by a plump-faced maid carrying a candlestick, who wordlessly began to light the rest of the candles in the room.

Mayene. They were in Mayene.

“Faile, it is good to see you awake.” Berelain’s voice was smooth and melodious as always, that smile of hers so wide it was practically condescending. “I’m pleased to see you are recovering. You wounds were so grievous when you were brought in, we all feared you would not survive.”

_ How dare she mock me! _ she thought, working her jaw. She would not put it past Berelain to have only allowed the most minimal of Healing to keep her bedridden, just so she could prance around and gloat! Out loud, Faile said in as calm a voice she could muster, “As you can see,  _ Berelain _ , I have recovered.” If she wanted to continue pretending they were  _ friends _ , then so be it. There was little else Faile could do in the presence of others but play along, though that did not mean she had to like it. “I want my leg Healed as soon as possible. I cannot lie around in bed when there are matters that require my attention. Send for my husband. We need to...”

Faile noted a ripple pass through the women as soon as she mentioned Perrin, making the rest of her words die on her tongue before they even passed her lips. Panic rose in her belly, cold and merciless, but she batted it away fiercely. She would not— _ could _ not—think about that possibility now. Light, she had to be strong.

“Bain, bring the Lady Faile some food. Some left over from dinner, I think. She will need to regain her strength.” Berelain’s expression was smooth, revealing nothing, as she serenely adjusted her robes and folded her hands before her.

Bain departed swiftly, like a ghost in the night, not even sparing Faile another glance. Faile’s hands twisted in the bedsheet, watching her go.  _ Abandoning  _ her to Berelain. Well, it was no matter. Bain could do nothing for her, not now. Faile knew this, but it did little to settle her emotions.

“Rosene, summon any of the Aes Sedai or Wise Ones we can spare. It won’t do for the Lady Faile to remain bedridden for long,” Berelain added, tossing her hair back with a lazy flick of her hand.

Faile’s eyes narrowed, fixing on Berelain. But she was aware of the maid from the corner of her eye lifting her head, dark eyes shifting warily between Berelain and Faile, curtsying deeply before departing swiftly with the candlestick. Even though the maid had illuminated every candle in the room, it was still dark in some places, and Berelain’s face appeared oddly hooded and swathed in shadows. Now that it was quiet, she could also hear soft moans coming from somewhere far-off. It all made the panic rise in Faile’s throat again, but she steeled herself against it. She had to be strong. Light, she  _ had  _ to be.

Berelain watched the maid depart, silent for several long moments before she turned back to Faile. “Now that we are alone, we can speak more freely,” she explained in a low voice, her skirts rustling as she approached the bed. “Dutiful as my maids are, their tongues often get the better of them, and they will surely be wagging before the night is out.”

Faile eyed her warily, her eyes never leaving Berelain’s, even as the woman seated herself in the armchair Bain had been occupying earlier. Burn her, even the way she  _ sat _ appeared seductive, her low neckline revealing a generous amount of cleavage. It reminded Faile keenly of how she could never hope to compare to the likes of Berelain, until she sharply reprimanded herself for getting sidetracked, chalking it up to her throbbing leg and the lack of nourishment.

“Then speak.” She forced herself to move slowly as she covered herself again with the blankets, to hide the wince when she nudged her leg. Telling herself that she was merely cold, and not self-conscious. “Was the Last Battle won, yes or no?”

Berelain’s mouth twisted, and Faile recalled how the woman was not overtly fond of blunt conversations. “Word from Merrilor confirms that the majority of the Shadowspawn present were crushed,” she replied, her voice unruffled. “Unfortunately, the Sharans—from what I was told, they were following one of the Forsaken—mostly escaped, returning to their lands. But yes, for all intents and purposes... the Last Battle was won.”

Faile remembered seeing Sharans at Merrilor, pursuing her. She hadn’t had the mind to think about them at the time. But there it was again, that odd tone in Berelain’s voice that spoke of more, the same one Faile had heard in Bain’s voice. “But the Blight remains,” she stated, her hands tightening stop her lap.

“The Blight remains,” Berelain confirmed quietly. “A beam of light shot into the air two days ago above Thakan’dar. Aes Sedai and Asha’man alike reported that the channeling was unlike anything they had ever felt before, but...” She fell silent for a time, her expression grave. “The clouds have cleared, our forces are recovering, but there is no word on what happened to the Dragon Reborn. No word on whether he survived or fell. No word at all.”

Faile hesitated, her brow furrowing. Surely news over the Dragon Reborn’s fate would have been the first to reach their ears. If the Dark One’s armies had been defeated and driven back... Light, didn’t that meant that they  _ had  _ won?

But if they had, why did Bain—and  _ Berelain  _ for that matter—seem so worried? Why did Faile’s insides writhe so, as if snakes had made a nest in her belly?

Drawing in a deep breath to steady herself, Faile stared straight ahead. She would get to the bottom of this. Merrilor would be her first stop, as that had been the last place she had found herself in. She needed to find out whether Olver had gotten the Horn to safety, whether it had reached Mat in time. Things Berelain would not know of, things that would not be in official reports. She needed to find Tam al’Thor and learn just how many of their forces had perished, how many were still wounded and healing, how many could still be quickly deployed...

“Where is Perrin?” she demanded, fixing Berelain with a level gaze. “You all reacted when I mentioned him earlier, as if I wouldn’t notice. Is he not with the rest of our forces?”  _ Or is he off doing something for the Dragon Reborn? He spoke of it, last I saw him. Perrin, you bull-goosed fool, what have you gotten yourself into? _ Despite her thoughts, she refused to give in to that fluttery, panicky feeling that wanted to eat her from the inside out.

Berelain did not quite meet her gaze, fingering a sleeve between her fingers. It was then that Faile realized that her dress was rumpled, though it appeared immaculate from afar. Her eyes trailed slowly over Berelain, taking in the black circles under her eyes, the way her hair looked like it had not been brushed, despite the diadem that sat upon her curls. It was bizarre, seeing Berelain in such a state. She had never seemed anything less than perfect.

“I don’t know,” she finally admitted, folding her arms and returning her gaze to Faile’s. “Before our forces were pushed back to Merrilor, he was brought here to be Healed from a mortal wound. This was the room he stayed in, in fact. But he snuck off in the middle of the night after waking again, to do Light knows what.” Her dark eyes remained fixed on her, unwavering. “You will have to assume the worst, Faile. They are still going through the dead, and the numbers keep rising.”

Faile threaded her fingers together, her knuckles going white. Light, she knew she had to accept the possibility that he may be dead—despite his unique connection to wolves, despite him being  _ ta’veren _ , he was very much still a mortal man—but she did not want to. Not now, not in front of Berelain. There was still too much she had to do, too much to afford grief to worm its way into her heart. She had to assume the worst, she knew she did, but when she opened her mouth, even her own words surprised her.

“You underestimate him once again,” she said, her voice far steadier than she herself felt. Her fingers touched the blankets briefly, wondering if they had been changed before she was brought here, or if they were the same blankets Perrin had slept in. “My husband is resourceful. If he has a task to see through, he will see it to the end. It will take more than a life-threatening injury to hold him back, stubborn man that he is.”

Berelain chuckled, but there was no mirth in the sound. “You know, when he was here last, your roles were reversed. Your supply caravan had just been destroyed in a bubble of evil, and he refused to give up hope, believing you still lived. Perhaps...” She tilted her head to the side and tapped her cheek, considering. “Perhaps he still lives too, wherever he is.”

“Whatever the case,” Faile said, returning the smile with one equally forced, “there is no point in worrying over something that is out of my hands, is there?”

“I suppose there isn’t, at that.”

They sat in silence for a time, each lost in her own thoughts. Panic continued to batter against the walls Faile had erected to keep it at bay, but she was quickly losing the battle, clinging to her composure by a single thread. If only Berelain would just  _ leave _ . The woman’s presence was like a thorny burr she could not get out of her side, a nuisance that would not cease its torment and leave her be. It was clear from Berelain’s words that she had believed her to be dead, and Faile did not know how to feel about that besides  _ furious _ . It was like what happened with the Shaido all over again, with Berelain doing nothing to stop those insidious rumors about her and Perrin from spreading simply because she had never expected Faile to be  _ alive  _ for them to ever matter. Burn her, hadn’t she already chosen Galad Damodred to be her new target?

Faile was spared trying to rein in her anger before breaking the silence by the maid’s return, an Aes Sedai by her side. She was a slender woman with a long neck, her face tired... and her orange dress slashed with yellow was stained with dried blood. Faile abruptly felt foolish for dragging this woman away from what was clearly more important than a broken leg. Even so, the Aes Sedai offered a wan smile as she approached the bed.

“You seem to be recovering nicely, dear,” she said, touching a hand to Faile’s face. Something passed through her, much like a warm ripple that started from the top of her head and traveled down all the way to the toes of her feet. “I am sorry for the inconvenience. I would have Healed you fully the first time around, if it hadn’t been important to conserve energy for other wounded. But you survived. That’s what matters. Now, to see to your leg.”

She gripped Faile’s head between her hands before she could ask after the Aes Sedai’s alarming words. Icy cold swept through Faile before she had time to prepare herself, leaving her trembling and gasping for breath. The Aes Sedai drew back with a soft sigh, bracing herself on the back of Berelain’s chair. Swallowing, and still trying to stop herself from shaking, Faile wriggled her toes experimentally, despite her leg still being bound. The pain was gone, thankfully, as if it had never been there in the first place. Even her arms were free of those ugly bruises.

“Thank you, Aes Sedai,” she said breathlessly. Her stomach rumbled traitorously just then, making a flush creep up her cheeks. It felt as if the nesting snakes in her insides had now been replaced by a hollow cavern.

“See to it that she gets something to eat,” the Aes Sedai advised, straightening.

“Food has already been sent for, Rosil Sedai,” Berelain said, dipping her head in thanks.

“Three servings’ worth, if not more,” she went on as if she had not heard Berelain, smoothing the front of her dress and grimacing at the bloodied stain. “Light, but her people grow restless. She should have been Healed sooner—”

“I know,” Berelain cut in, not too quickly but clearly in a manner meant to silence her.

Rosil’s dark eyes widened a fraction in clear outrage, but her expression remained calm as ever, in true Aes Sedai fashion. She opened her mouth to say something, but Faile spoke first.

“My people?” Faile looked between the two women, still a little disoriented after that odd, chilly feeling from being Healed, but her eyes were narrowed and her gaze sharp. “What of my people? What happened to them?” Too many thoughts swirled around her head, too many what-ifs and maybes. Of course, the Two Rivers people would need someone to lead them if Perrin was missing, and if Tam al’Thor had fallen in battle, but it sounded as if there was more to the situation than that.

“Leave us if you will, Rosil Sedai,” Berelain said, her voice calm and unruffled. “Lady Faile and I have much to discuss.”

The Aes Sedai looked like she had a number of things to say, and none of them flattering, but her eyes settled on Faile for a long moment before she gathered her skirts into her fists and left the room, her footsteps echoing down the dark hallway.

Faile’s expression was like ice. “What did Rosil Sedai mean by all that?”

“If I told you, it would do you no good. There is nothing to be done.”

Keeping her temper under control was as impossible as swallowing rocks, but somehow she managed.  _ Barely _ . “It was not a request.” No doubt she was coming off a little too hostile, but her patience was dangling by a thread above a chasm. “Tell me what happened to the Two Rivers people  _ now _ .”

Berelain dropped her gaze—she actually did, burn her!—and stared down at her hands, folded atop her lap as they were. “It is not the Two Rivers people who need guidance, Faile, but the Saldaeans.”

Comprehension dawned on her, washing over her like a wave, more strongly than Rosil’s Healing had been. Faile stared at her for a long moment, forgetting how to breathe. She could barely form words to speak, but she managed. Somehow. “Tenobia...? My father...?”

“Both dead,” Berelain replied, voice solemn. “Queen Tenobia Kazadi fell on the battlefield in Shienar, she and her personal guard surrounded by Shadowspawn. Lord Davram Bashere and his wife, Lady Deira Bashere, fell on the Field of Merrilor during a charge. I am truly sorry, Faile.” And she sounded it too. Her voice cracked, her eyes turning moist.

_ Light, no, _ she thought, squeezing her eyes shut. Death was no stranger to a woman like Faile. She had lost two elder brothers to Trollocs. Saldaeans—no, not just Saldaeans, but  _ every  _ Borderlander—understood and accepted death as a part of life. You mourned, then moved on. That was the way things were. But Light, how it  _ hurt. _ She had not only lost her cousin, wild and fierce, but her father, whose mustaches tickled her so when he would kiss her as a child. Her  _ mother _ , too. Pressing a hand to her stomach, she barked out a sharp, bitter laugh. Her mother had always scolded her for wanting to accompany her father to the Blightborder when she was younger, had always demanded nothing but perfection from her, and now...

Something brushed against the back of her hand, and she jerked in surprise. A drop of water gleamed on her skin in the candlelight. She touched her hand to her face, startled to find it was wet.  _ Not in front of Berelain, _ her mind despaired. But she could no sooner stop the tears from rolling down her cheeks than she could stop the sun from rising.

“I don’t know why... I...” Her throat tightened, preventing her from forming any more words. Her hands were already shaking, but now her shoulders were shaking too. Light,  _ why  _ was her body betraying her like this in front of Berelain? 

Berelain rose from the chair, settling down onto the bed next to her. Faile stared at her, frozen. Even more shocking than the tears she could not stop were Berelain’s arms going around her, pulling her close. Faile’s nose filled with the woman’s scent, her body encased in perfumed warmth that did little to stop the trembling. She longed for Perrin to hold her instead, the thought strong enough to make a fresh batch of tears roll down her face and her breath rattle through her teeth.

“Weep, Faile,” she urged her, one hand stroking Faile’s hair like her father would whenever he had to leave to see to his soldiers, and could not take her with him. “Don’t keep it all inside. It’s all right to weep. It’s all right...”

So she did, clinging to Berelain desperately like she was an anchor, a lifeline, her sobs of grief joining the faint, distant moans of the wounded or dying in the hallways beyond.


	2. Chapter 2

Followed by her escort of Saldaean soldiers—men from Tyr, who had followed her father into the Blight countless times, and were what remained of his retinue—Faile dismounted swiftly, her leg not twinging once at the motion, passing the reins over to a footman. The Healing had done its work, thankfully. Not that she had expected any less from an Aes Sedai, but it would not do for her people to think she was unfit to ride. Saldaeans were practically _born_ in the saddle. She herself had begun riding lessons shortly after she learned to walk. Her father had insisted on it, had...

She grimaced, swallowing past the lump in her throat and smoothing out her skirts before she began to walk, followed by four members of her escort. The high-necked, long-sleeved brocade dress was too baggy around the chest and had sleeves shorter than she liked, but it would have to do. It was the only white dress cut in Saldaean fashion, and with divided skirts, that Berelain could find for her on such short notice. She had offered the service of her seamstress to make it more presentable, naturally, but Faile had declined the offer. Berelain had done too much for her already, witnessing her at her weakest the other night as she had. A debt Faile would never be able to pay back, not in good conscience. Besides, she had too much to do to worry about the dress not being specifically tailored for her. It was white for mourning, and that was what mattered right now. Of course, mourning traditionally included at least a month’s time of seclusion for someone of her status, but that was a luxury Faile could not afford. Full mourning colors would have to do, and burn whoever dared to say otherwise.

The wind whipped her hair back, bringing with it the distant smell of smoke, ash and charred flesh. Soldiers and command tents had been moved south, to a cluster of abandoned farms near the River Erinin, where she was now, while those who had fallen in Merrilor itself and remained unclaimed by family were being buried in mass graves. Shadowspawn corpses, on the other hand, were being shoved together into piles and burned, to prevent sickness from spreading. But despite the efforts to clean the battlefield by soldiers and channelers alike, as efficiently and quickly as they could, Faile could spy black masses of carrion birds circling above Merrilor, even from this distance.

She found Elayne, back in charge now that Mat Cauthon and the Seanchan were making preparations to return to Altara, inside her spacious command tent. She was seated at a sturdy, yet simply carved desk, still poring over documents. Her belly, large and swollen, inevitably drew in Faile’s eyes as the guards who announced her slipped back outside, Faile’s escort remaining with them. No one knew what had happened to the Dragon Reborn, the man Elayne claimed to love. After such a declaration, it was clear in Faile’s mind that the child—or _children_ , if the rumors were true—was his. If the man was truly dead, then Elayne’s children would grow up without ever knowing their father. Despite Faile’s feelings on them—Rand was too dangerous, Elayne was too ambitious—it was a sad thought.

Elayne rose, rounding the desk to meet her. “Zarine, it is good to see you up and about,” she greeted informally, folding her hands beneath her belly. “Or do you prefer Faile?” she asked after a brief pause, brow wrinkling. “Everyone seems to call you Faile, but...”

The unspoken statement was evident in Elayne’s words. “I prefer Faile, but considering recent events...” She left it hanging, her face a mask. _I will have to get used to being called Zarine again, or else my claim to the throne might be revoked. Only a technicality, but a binding one._ Much like when she had used her true name for her marriage vows, to keep her mother from finding an excuse to dissolve it. Her throat ached at those thoughts, like a noose had just been pulled tight around her neck. _It is the noose of duty that binds me._

“I understand.” Elayne offered her a small, polite smile. “Please accept my condolences. I was rather fond of Lord Bashere, despite... well, despite circumstances.”

“Circumstances that were _no_ fault of his own, or of any of the other Great Captains,” Faile pointed out instantly, her mouth pressing into a thin line.

She had, of course, heard the rumors surrounding her father accused of betraying them, of being a _Darkfriend_ , because of his tactical blunders. The truth of the matter, that he and the other generals had been under the effects of a weave called Compulsion, had come out afterwards, thankfully. But that didn’t mean the accusation had not tarnished his reputation. It made Faile’s blood boil, made her want to grab the lamp right off of Elayne’s desk and smash it.

But Elayne was no Saldaean, and such a display would only sour relations between their kingdoms, something they could not afford so soon after the Last Battle. Elayne was already staring at her in silent outrage, eyes wide and nostrils flaring. No, as good as it would feel to shout, to curse, to rage, Andorans were a prickly people.

So just as Elayne opened her mouth to retort, Faile spoke over her. “I apologize,” she said quickly, lifting a hand. “My remark was uncalled for. I am sure you did what you thought was best, at the time.” Admitting as much felt like she was prying rocks out of her teeth, but she hoped it would suffice. Leaders—no, _rulers_ —had to play by other rules. She had to think about her people, and Elayne had only done the same.

Elayne appeared to deflate, her shoulders sagging. “Apology accepted,” she replied primly, dipping her head slightly. “I did what I had to. It brought me no joy.” A pause followed, Elayne’s large blue eyes still on her, measuring her. “I did mean what I said earlier, Faile,” she said quietly then, reaching out to touch her arm. “I am truly sorry for your loss.”

It was meant to be a comforting gesture, but all Faile wanted to do was shy away from it. Berelain comforting her had been bad enough. Despite her losses, she had to persevere, and if everyone kept offering their condolences to her, she thought she might scream. Still, she made herself pat Elayne’s hand. There appeared to be something more in Elayne’s eyes upon closer inspection, though. Sympathy, perhaps? Or understanding? Faile supposed that Elayne would know better than most how it was like to lose a beloved parent, especially one whose reputation had been tarnished, but those were thoughts Faile did not want to entertain right at that moment. Instead, she focused on Elayne not quite apologizing for her earlier comment, taking her hand back. Politics was always a safer topic to think about.

“Thank you,” she said simply, dipping her head politely and taking the seat offered to her when one of Elayne’s serving maids came in with tea. “Are there any new reports?” she asked, rearranging her skirts. She sipped at her cup of tea, cloudberries with a splash of mint. The same tea she had been offered in Caemlyn, when they had negotiated with Elayne over the Two Rivers. An odd choice.

If Elayne was taken aback by her brisk matter, she did not show it. “The number of casualties keeps rising, which isn’t surprising.” She set down her tea and shuffled through some papers, her brow furrowing. “Aes Sedai numbers have also been significantly reduced, which is also no surprise. Those who have survived have either remained here to assist with the clean-ups, gone to Mayene to help the Yellow Ajah with Healing, or gone to Thakan’dar.”

“They will need a new Amyrlin Seat soon,” Faile said carefully. She had only met Egwene al’Vere briefly at the Dragon Reborn’s meeting, before the majority of the fighting had broken out. A hard woman, but one with a keen eye for politics. Faile felt a twinge of dismay for Master and Mistress al’Vere, losing a child so young, and another twinge for Tam al’Thor.

“They will.” Elayne paused, her hands stilling on the desk. As if she wanted to say more, but decided better on it. “In either case, such a decision will take time. Word from our forces in Thakan’dar say they feel it necessary to remain, just in case...”

“In case the Dragon Reborn yet lives?”

It was then that Faile noted, in a detached sort of fashion, that while Elayne was not dressed for mourning, the ribbons in her hair were white. Did she still cling to the hope that the Dragon Reborn was still alive? It seemed a foolish thing to do, in truth, but then again she too clung to hope that Perrin lived. _Don’t think about him now,_ she admonished herself. She had to plan for the worst, and right now that meant assuming he had perished.

Elayne’s eyes did not quite meet hers. “That, and dealing with disorganized Shadowspawn who continue to fight. Part of the reason Aes Sedai—and Asha’man, of course—were sent there to provide assistance.”

“So there’s still fighting in Thakan’dar?” Faile sat up, setting her teacup on the table. “Just how many of the Shadow’s forces remain?”

“I imagine a number of them remain in the Blight—and Kandor, of course,” she admitted, sighing heavily. There were dark circles under Elayne’s eyes, as if she had not slept in days. “Our last stand took place here, so the Last Battle was, for all intents and purposes, fought and won. But Rand’s... absence... has made enough people doubt even that, without adding more tinder to the fire. Best to keep news of more fighting limited to those _doing_ the fighting, and only to the rulers of other nations, for the time being. At least the fighting in Thakan’dar is mostly skirmishes, but they are frequent enough to be a concern.”

Elayne leaned forwards then, eyes intent. “If we want to put an end to this threat once and for all, killing as many Shadowspawn while we still can will save us the headache of dealing with them in the future. Thakan’dar is being dealt with, and Queen Ethenielle has just about finished marshalling her troops to return home and root out any that are still lingering. They’re leaderless now, practically aimless. The Sharans have retreated to their own lands without Demandred, whatever Dreadlords there were have been dispatched... now all that’s left to do is clean the mess up.”

Faile nodded slowly, taking another sip of tea. It was a very Borderlander thing to do. No one let Shadowspawn live to hunt you down another day. The Dragon Reborn had been right to leave Elayne in charge. Even though Faile had heard it was _Cauthon_ who led their forces to victory instead, assuming command when it was discovered the Great Captains’ minds had been affected. Something about his _ta’veren_ nature, or so word had said, making him untouchable. Then again, common people often attributed a more fantastical spin to events. Faile had already learned that it was due to some medallion of sorts he owned that made him immune to channeling.

“This is why I called you here, Faile,” Elayne went on, straightening in her seat. Her bearing was regal, which came as no surprise. “The Borderlanders united under Lord Mandragoran, but he went missing shortly after killing Demandred. The other Borderlander rulers survived, of course. Like I said earlier, Queen Ethenielle will march to reclaim Kandor, then rebuild. Kings Paitar and Easar will send their own forces to aid her, and as for the Saldaeans...”

She fell silent, clearly expecting Faile to inform her as to what the Saldaeans would be doing. Naturally, it stood to reason that Faile would send troops to accompany Queen Ethenielle. Borderlanders were united in all things regarding the Blight, despite the divisions in their cultures. Faile had already met with the Borderlander rulers earlier that day, in fact, and so had known of Ethenielle’s plans before Elayne told her of them. Which only made what Faile had to do next even _more_ imperative than it had been before.

“I have a more pressing matter to discuss with you,” Faile said, carefully placing her half-empty teacup back on the table. “One that concerns the future of our nations.”

Elayne was silent for several moments. “What matter is this?” she finally asked.

“We both know that I am now the immediate heir to the Saldaean throne.” Faile leaned back and placed both hands on the chair’s armrests, to appear confident and at ease, despite the dryness in her throat. “A throne that has ties to Andor through my marriage, which concerns what remains of the Council of Lords I met with earlier today. They believe my succession to the throne is a convoluted matter, and want certain assurances before we can proceed with the coronation.”

Elayne leaned back too, folding a hand atop her belly. “I remember this being a concern when I first gave your husband stewardship of the Two Rivers.” Despite her relaxed tone, her jaw firmed stubbornly. “We agreed that one of your children would rule the Two Rivers if you ever assumed the Saldaean throne.” She tilted her head, golden curls swaying. “And you have no children.”

Expecting such a reply, Faile managed to keep her face impassive. “Not yet, I don’t.”

Elayne’s eyes narrowed briefly. “Last I heard, Lord Aybara was still missing, and he named Tam al’Thor his successor, not you.” Her hand stroked her belly almost fondly. “So it seems to me that Tam al’Thor will now govern the Two Rivers, as is proper, given he is the Dragon Reborn’s father.”

“Only for so long as he is alive,” Faile reminded her, struggling to keep the bite out of her voice. She knew that Perrin hadn’t meant to slight her, being ignorant of politics and successions, but they should have discussed such a thing together first. “He is a stubborn man too, with no intention to remarry. If my husband is dead, and the Dragon Reborn dead too, then the Two Rivers will remain ungoverned when Lord al’Thor dies.”

Elayne sat up straighter, lips pressing together. Faile had hit a nerve by bringing Rand up, as she had expected to. Still, it was not Faile’s intention to wrangle more power and lands out of Elayne, despite what the woman might think, given her current hostility. Faile only wished to maintain what had already been established, though she still believed that Perrin had been given a lesser rank than he deserved when _he_ had been the one to keep the Two Rivers safe, not Rand. He was happy as a steward, though, so Faile would respect that.

“The Two Rivers was granted to the Dragon Reborn’s family,” Elayne said slowly, relaxing now that she had seemingly found a loophole. “I bear Rand’s children, so it only stands to reason that I appoint one of them to govern upon their coming of age.”

Faile leaned forwards, hands still gripping the armrests. “But did you ever marry Rand?”

Elayne blinked in surprise, lips parting. Abruptly, her eyes narrowed. “Oh, I see. You mean to say that my children have no _legitimate_ claim to the Two Rivers.”

“That is exactly what I am saying.” Faile’s chin rose stubbornly. “As you said before, we decided, in _writing_ , that one of my children would succeed myself and my husband if I ever assumed the Saldaean throne. Lord al’Thor being named my husband’s successor muddies matters, especially in light of my husband being missing, but it does not change who I married, nor what we originally agreed on.

“And so...” she said, making eye contact with Elayne, “I humbly request that the Two Rivers be passed on to me in name, but with Lord al’Thor governing the lands until his death, which I hope will not come for some time yet. So that, eventually, one of my children can govern it when the time comes, as was originally agreed upon.”

Elayne was silent, her expression hostile. “You mean to say you are with child.”

Faile said nothing, only smiled.

It was a gamble. One she might come to regret, depending on how things turned out, but still a gamble. She did not know whether she was, in truth, but if Perrin had truly perished—oh, Light send that it wasn’t so—being with child would be a small mercy. If it turned out she was not, well... she could always remind Elayne later that she had not outright _stated_ that she was with child, though it would certainly sour relations between Saldaea and Andor. Hopefully, it did not come to that. As long as Tam lived, the Two Rivers would have one of its own to lead it, without Faile needing to interfere. She had discussed the matter already with Tam, and he had agreed, though reluctantly. He had not liked Perrin naming him his successor one bit, but he understood that Faile’s responsibility to her people required her to turn to Saldaea now. At least, if Perrin was still alive, then this entire exchange would be considered void. But Faile could not rely on hope alone to see her through. She had to be practical. She had to plan for the worst outcome.

“Even if you _are_ with child, would your firstborn not become your immediate heir?” Elayne said slowly, a thoughtful furrow between her brows. “I am not familiar with Saldaean laws, unfortunately, but in Andor, succession goes from mother to daughter.”

Faile was certain that Elayne was familiar with order of succession and was merely testing her. “This is true,” she admitted with a small nod. “However, I imagine you would prefer someone with _some_ degree of Andoran blood to govern the Two Rivers rather than a full-blooded Saldaean. If my husband is dead, then I will have to remarry, eventually.” Despite her best efforts, her hands tightened around the armrests, an action she immediately regretted when she noticed Elayne’s eyes flicker to them.

“I would,” she admitted, leaning back against her chair again. She stared at Faile for some time, the silence stretching out between them, channeling briefly to heat up her tea again before taking a sip. Abruptly, she laughed. “You play _Daes Dae’mar_ well, Faile. Who taught you, if I may ask?”

“My mother did.” The lump in her throat returned, but she forced it back down. “Borderlanders do not concern themselves much with it, but she felt it a necessary part of my education.”

“Ah, yes. Lady Bashere was a fine woman. Loyal, too.” Elayne took another sip from her teacup, channeling again to set it back down on the table. “Just as loyal as you are to your husband.”

“I only want what’s best for my people,” she said softly, wishing she could stop thinking about Perrin, torn between hoping he was somewhere safe and wondering whether his corpse lay unclaimed in a ditch somewhere. “For _both_ of my people.”

She fell silent, waiting for Elayne’s decision. She did not know why Elayne had suddenly become amicable towards her again, though she had her suspicions. Either the woman was genuine, or she was playing _Daes Dae’mar_ more expertly than Faile was. She imagined Elayne was a particularly skilled player, having spent years honing her talents, which walked hand-in-hand with her ambition. Faile had never been groomed for the throne the way Elayne had. The throne had never been meant to be hers. Tenobia should have _lived_ , burn her. Faile tightened her hands on the armrests again, feeling a little light-headed.

“Very well. I believe we can make a small amendment to our previous agreement. Besides, it is not all that different from what we first agreed on, and while I cannot say I am pleased that Lord Aybara named Tam al’Thor a lord without warning, he is a good choice for the Two Rivers. Perhaps I...” Elayne’s cheeks colored slightly. “Perhaps I overreacted, a little. I know so little about you, I could not be sure of your intentions. Initially, it sounded like you wanted the Two Rivers all to yourself.”

“Thank you, Elayne.” Faile folded her hands onto her lap, breathing a little more easily now. The worst was out of the way, thankfully. “The Two Rivers deserves its independence. I wished only to maintain it. I’ve spoken with Lord Tam about the matter already. He will see to the Two Rivers while I attend matters in Saldaea.”

“So you _will_ ride north with Queen Ethenielle?”

“A quarter of my forces will. The rest of us must go to Maradon—well, what’s _left_ of Maradon—for my coronation. We must focus on rebuilding, now that the Last Battle is over, and examine the Blight’s effects on the land.”

She reached for her tea, now lukewarm, and took a sip before hesitating. “Elayne... I need to ask you something else.”

Elayne eyed her uncertainly. “Like what?”

“Do you know what task the Dragon Reborn set for my husband?” Faile swallowed, her hands tightening around the cup. Her composure had frayed again, hanging only by a few threads. “All I know from Tam is that Perrin said he had to go to Rand, and...” Her tongue stilled as soon as the words were out of her mouth, heavy like lead.

A few heartbeats passed before Elayne sighed, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Faile. I wish I knew.” She grimaced, laying a hand on her stomach again. “Light, I truly wish I knew...”

Faile nodded, putting her tea back down. It was clear from Elayne’s tone that she did not have the faintest idea. Not about Perrin, nor about Rand. Perhaps it was just as well. There was another lead Faile could follow, of course. Bain and Chiad had told her that Gaul had been with Perrin in the dream—or the _wolf dream_ , as he tended to call it—guarding Rand. She had every intention of questioning Gaul about it, of course, but the bloody man was _still_ sleeping. Staying so long in the dream with Perrin had taken its toll on him, somehow, to the point that he had nearly exhausted himself to death.

Could Perrin _still_ be in the dream? Was that why he was still missing? But if he was, judging by Gaul’s state alone... _Light preserve him, wherever he is._


	3. Chapter 3

Faile stood before one of the mullioned windows in her new sitting room, arms crossed beneath her bosom and hands clenched into fists under her elbows. The stained glass made window-gazing difficult, and the position of the now setting sun cast everything in shadow, but she had already memorized the sight that spread out below. Broken-down buildings, assorted wreckage and debris, and deserted streets stretched as far as the eye could see, serving as a painful reminder of what had taken place here a few months ago.

The capital of Saldaea, Maradon, laid to waste by Shadowspawn.

Her teeth clenched. It was still hard to believe that the capital—even after she had ridden through the streets last night and taken in all the damage dealt by both attackers and defenders—had been reduced to such a battered, defeated state. Just as hard as it was to believe that Lord Torkumen, a distant relation of hers left in command here by Tenobia herself when she first rode south with the other Borderlanders, had turned out to be a _Darkfriend_. Faile’s nails dug into her palms, hard. She had not known him well, though word went that Tenobia had been fond of him, but she did not mourn his fate. Nor did she mourn his wife’s fate, who had also given herself to the Shadow. Not after witnessing what Torkumen’s actions had wrought on the heart of Saldaea, nearly costing them the city.

Plans to rebuild Maradon were already being discussed by the Council of Lords, at least. Cordamora Palace had withstood the attack, but still needed a number of repairs. The Council Hall had been completely flattened, on the other hand, but it gave their architects the opportunity to improve on the original design. They would be rebuilding for years to come, she suspected, despite whatever aid Aes Sedai and Asha’man alike offered. What with their numbers so diminished, and with Kandor being in utter ruins, it did not seem appropriate to enlist _too_ many channelers simply to rebuild Maradon. That was a duty that could be relegated to laborers, better suited for the task and familiar with the capital’s original layout.

Besides, there was another task Faile would have to see to after being crowned that, in her estimation, was even _more_ important than rebuilding: rooting out any remaining Darkfriends among her relations and the rest of the nobility, carefully and discreetly. It was bad enough that word of Torkumen’s betrayal had traveled to other nations, making it seem as if not even Borderlanders, those who fought against the Blight all their lives, were immune to the lure of the Shadow. If there were more hiding in plain sight hoping that they could forget their promises to the Dark One, like Aravine...

Sucking in a deep breath, Faile turned away from the window, silk skirts rustling. While she was no stranger to fine clothes, she couldn’t get used to her current dress. It was of heavy silk and more form-fitting than she liked, with elaborate golden-worked embroidery not only down her long sleeves and high-necked collar, but around the hem that trailed behind her. All white, of course, except for her sash: dark blue with deep red kingspennies embroidered all along its length, trailing to the floor, the sigil of House Bashere. Coronations were not usually performed during periods of mourning, but Saldaea could not afford to be without leadership for long. Light, _especially_ not now.

_Tenobia should be here, not me,_ she thought, reaching out to support her weight on the back of a cushioned chair before sinking into it, covering her forehead with a hand. _I don’t know anything about ruling, not the way she did._

In truth, learning about the particulars of her cousin’s death had not surprised Faile. It was so like Tenobia to want to participate in the fight against the Shadow. She had always wanted glory, to ride into battle like how all the stories and songs said. But it was hard, now that Faile was in Cordamora Palace itself, awaiting to be coronated in what used to be Tenobia’s own _chambers_ , to not think about her. She had been a good ruler, despite her temper. Merciful when necessary, harsh when it was demanded. Perhaps too brave, but not too foolish. Faile had heard numerous tales of Tenobia’s childhood from her father, who had watched her grow up, and she had spent enough time in the woman’s company herself to know that each and every one of them was true.

Faile’s hands slid down to clutch at her middle, as if the gesture alone would be enough to keep the torrent of emotions that threatened to overcome her at arm’s length. Thinking about her cousin only made her start thinking about her parents. They had been buried earlier that morning, along with other nobles—some distant relations—who had perished in the Last Battle. Tenobia’s body had been lost, of course, and the bodies of her parents and other nobles too mutilated for last offices, but they had all been given proper obsequies all the same. It had all lasted well into early afternoon, by which time she’d been whisked away by servants to be prepared for her coronation—before she could even speak to her younger brother!

She touched a hand to her forehead. Everything was happening too fast. It had only been three days since she first woke up in Mayene, and five since the Last Battle ended. Three days since she had learned of the deaths of her cousin, her parents. Five days since anyone had seen or heard from Perrin. She couldn’t _do_ this, burn her. How did they expect her to be a queen when she had just lost her parents, when her husband might still be out there somewhere? Light, she wanted to sick up. It was all just too much.

She concentrated on taking slow, even breaths until her heart had settled and the nausea in her stomach bubbled back down to almost nothing. But bile still stuck in the back of her throat and tears now stung the corners of her eyes, threatening to ruin the paints and powders servants had applied to her face.

She drew in a shaky breath, pulling out a small white fan from a sleeve to cool herself off. She had already mourned her cousin and parents, when Berelain had held her close that first night. A memory that did not seem so terrible now, days later. Berelain had respected her wishes and hadn’t brought the incident up again, though she had oddly kept in touch with her, and even complimented Faile for her negotiating skills with Elayne. Of course Berelain would have approved of that. _That woman will never change,_ Faile thought, almost fondly.

But despite the small smile that thought brought to her lips, Faile was conscious of her blood pounding in her ears. Oh, how she hated being unable to control her emotions like this. Anger was much easier to handle than sorrow. It was a formidable weapon in the right hands, cutting more surely than any dagger did, though she recognized she still had a long way to go before she could wield it to perfection. Loss was an altogether different matter, though. It was insidious, creeping into every pore and crevice before you even knew you were infected, eating away at you like a disease.

Death was a part of life in Saldaea. Only Borderlanders truly understood the cost of protecting the land, of fighting against the Blight. Light, Faile ought to be swelling with pride, knowing that her cousin and parents had not died in vain. The had fought for the fate of the world, in the Last Battle itself, and they had won.

They had won... hadn’t they?

“My Lady?” a voice called from the door. “The Council of Lords summons you.”

Faile rose gracefully, slipping the fan back into her sleeve before turning to face her mother’s ladies-in-waiting— _hers_ now, she reminded herself, as they had already pledged themselves to her—who had folded themselves into deep curtsies. Faile’s face was smooth, as expressionless as an Aes Sedai’s. There was no trace of her inner turmoil only moments before, as was proper.

She strode down the corridor at a stately pace, her father’s guards marching on either side of her, one of her mother’s ladies carrying the train of her dress, which wasn’t really necessary as it was only about six feet long, but tradition demanded it. Despite how different the occasion was, Faile’s stomach was fluttering as badly as it had when she was climbing the steps in the Great Square of Tammaz to take the Hunter’s Oath. Light, that felt like a _lifetime_ ago. Like the memory now belonged to someone else, not her.

The throne room was less crowded than she had been expecting, a good number of the nobility having fallen in the Last Battle. Faile could recall how tightly packed and raucous Illian had been in contrast, shouts and cymbals filling the air. Here, there was an unnatural stillness in the chamber, as if everyone in the room was holding their breath. Proper forms had to be followed, traditions observed. Only the Oath itself had been formal in Illian, what with thousands of Hunters clustered together all thirsting for adventure and glory.

Such ephemeral desires those had been. She knew now that she had been foolish to ever chase them. Now she had to devote herself to duty, to responsibility. _If not for the dreams of the girl I used to be, I would not be standing here today,_ she reminded herself, coming to a stop before the throne. It was important to remember where she had come from, everything that had led her to this point.

A silver-wrought crown, adorned with sapphires and rubies, was held carefully between the gloved hands of a hook-nosed Saldaean, a distant uncle of hers and the current head of the Council of Lords, whose name eluded her right at that moment. She swallowed nervously, her eyes lingering on the crown. Three silver fish nestled in the center of the wide band, one atop the other, representing her country’s sigil.

Whoever said the Pattern did not have a sense of humor? First, the Horn of Valere, the relic she had left home for, had been placed in her care without her even asking for it. Now, the three Silver Fish of Saldaea welcomed her home. Light, Faile had never been fond of fish, and now she would have to wear a _crown_ of fish. The Pattern truly was mocking her.

It was a little odd, how the mind thought of such inane things during such an important proceeding. It had wandered when she took the Oath in Illian, too. Faile struggled to stay focused, but her insides were still fluttering when her uncle began the ceremony, his voice strong and carrying easily throughout the large chamber. It was odder still when she realized that the only ceremony she had sat through, where she had not been distracted at all, had been during her marriage to Perrin.

_It’s been five days since the Last Battle ended,_ she thought again, squeezing her eyes shut while her uncle droned on. Five days since Perrin went missing. Thinking about him made her heart ache. _If it’s been so long, maybe he really is..._

No, she _refused_ to think about that now, when every noble in attendance was watching her and waiting for her to crack. She forced herself to think about something else, something safer. Almost blessedly, her mind wandered back to taking the Hunter’s Oath again, and so she focused on comparing the ceremony to her coronation.

It was no different at the core, really, despite the significant differences. Two years ago, she had sworn an oath to find the Horn of Valere, and earn a spot in gleemen’s tales; now, she would swear an oath that would name her Saldaea’s first queen after the Last Battle, and she had even held the Horn of Valere in her own two hands. Whether she wished for it or not, she had earned her place in the stories.

_And what of Perrin’s place in them?_ she thought, despite her earlier cautions. _How will he go down in history, when he is nowhere to be found?_

Being practical was all well and good, but it did little to put her fears to rest. She could not help the way she felt, nor could she help but fear the worst for Perrin. At least, if his body was found, she would know what had become of him. Or even if there was no body to bury, at least if she _knew_ he was dead, then she could mourn him properly. Not knowing was worse than knowing. She could grieve for her cousin and parents, gain closure. But she did not know whether to grieve for Perrin, and the uncertainty threatened to eat her from the inside out.

“My Lady, is Your Majesty willing to take the oath?”

It took Faile a moment to realize she was being addressed. “I am willing,” she said, her voice hoarse but steady.

“Will you solemnly promise and swear to protect and govern the people of Saldaea according to law and custom, and to guard the Blightborder to keep the Shadow at bay?”

“I solemnly promise and swear to do so.”

“Do you solemnly promise and swear, in matters of law and justice, to be both merciful and unyielding, when you execute your judgements?”

“I solemnly promise and swear to do so.”

She knelt on the ground, the plush carpet soft beneath her knees, placing her hands above her heart. “By the Light and my hope of salvation and rebirth, I swear to serve my people in whatever way they require for as long as they require, or may the Creator’s face turn from me forever and darkness consume my soul.” There was no oath that was more binding. Her fate had now been sealed.

“Then rise, and take your appointed place.”

She rose gracefully to her feet and her uncle placed the crown upon her head. Though it was lighter than she had been expecting, Faile was very conscious of its weight. She extended her hands expectantly, palms upwards, and her uncle laid a massive sword atop them, its weight ten times that of the crown. It was the most impractical weapon she had ever laid eyes on, all golden gilding and precious stones. It was not made for warfare, of course not, but its edges were still sharp as they pressed against her skin.

Carrying the blade carefully, she took the last remaining steps to the throne. The elaborately carved seat was massive and sported more fish, all gilded in silver. Above it hung a shield, as bejeweled as the sword she carried. Turning around, Faile’s gaze swept across the gathered nobles deliberately for several moments before she placed the sword before her, point downwards, and finally seated herself.

“All rise for Her Illuminated Majesty, Zarine ni Bashere t’Aybara, Shield of the North and Sword of the Blightborder, High Seat of House Bashere, First Lady of Bashere, Tyr and Sidona”—there was a brief pause before it was followed by—“and the Two Rivers.”

She closed her eyes briefly as she heard all those amassed rise to their feet, her fingers tightening around the sword’s pommel. It was done. She was Queen of Saldaea. Her throat was dry, her heart pounding against her ribcage. There was no going back now.

Selfishly, she wished she could have kept the name Faile, but that would have raised too many questions on her legitimacy. She had pushed the boundaries of propriety enough by preserving her title over the Two Rivers and insisting on it being included. The Council of Lords had huffed and puffed at that, but eventually acquiesced. She was still married, and through her marriage she had ties to the Two Rivers.

Even if Perrin should have been here, by her side.

The nobles began to order themselves by rank to swear fealty to her, kneeling before her and kissing the polished blade. First in line was the uncle who had led the ceremony, his large nose bumping against the blade when he pressed his lips to it.

As the procession went on, Faile’s thoughts drifted away from Perrin and to another matter. How many of these nobles bowing and curtsying before her were Darkfriends in disguise? How many hoped they would never be found, now that the Last Battle had been fought and won? How many would pray to the Light out loud, but continue to pledge themselves to the Shadow in their hearts?

Her hands tightened on the pommel, her jaw firming. She _would_ find them, burn her. Even if it took a lifetime, she would unearth them _all_.

***

It was late into the night, but the banquet was still in full swing. Guests dined and danced, spinning around in numerous flashes of white and even some splashes of color. Musicians played an assortment of melodies in the background, from battle hymns to stirring ballads, but the music was nowhere near loud enough to drown out the din of conversation and laughter. Saldaeans were a fierce, hearty people. Most in attendance were mourning relatives who had perished, but propriety could be bent in wake of the Last Battle. A celebration of life was what Faile’s people needed now, even if she herself felt no such hope in her heart.

Still, as was proper during her time of mourning, and given her high station, Faile did not take part in any dancing or merrymaking herself. She ate, drank, and conversed, but she remained seated throughout the festivities. Custom demanded that guests could only depart once the king or queen retired for the night. As her people tended to be a prickly sort, whether she left too early or too late, it would sour the expectations of her new courtiers. She was a wild card to most of them, having spent the last two years beyond Saldaea’s borders. There were already whispers whether she would be up to the task of ruling. Tenobia had left incredibly large shoes to fill. Another hour ought to do it, though Faile felt more like hurling her half-eaten dinner plate against the wall than making smalltalk. Perhaps that would dissuade some of their misgivings.

“Your Majesty enjoys hawking then?” Lady Nazari’s daughter, Tiaryn, was much taller than her young age suggested. Already, she was flaunting what assets she possessed, the embroidery of her dress accentuating her curves. Then again, Faile mused ruefully as she took another sip of wine, her mother had done the same thing with her when she had been Tiaryn’s age.

“Sometimes,” she replied, leaning back in her seat and fanning herself. It was no throne, but it was certainly the largest chair in the room, made out of a dark rich wood and upholstered with dark blue velvet. “It is not a sport I had much time for in recent years, but I enjoyed it immensely when I was around your age.” Never mind that the thought of it now made her throat tighten and her skin prickle, bringing to mind the flash of spears and black-veiled men.

“What was your bird of choice, Your Majesty?” Tiaryn’s tilted blue eyes sparkled above her fan, which gave a fluttering hitch to indicate relief. Likely, she had worried her topic of choice might not be well received. At least, her involuntary glance to the side, where her mother was waiting several feet away, indicated as much. Light, had Faile ever been this obvious at court? Perhaps she had been, once. “I am quite partial to the harrier myself,” she went on breathlessly.

“I favor the falcon,” Faile replied, tapping her fan briefly against her chin before snapping it closed with a deft twist of her wrist. “They’re agile and quick, as well as persistent.” As complex as the language of fans was, all young noblewomen were taught it from a young age. Her message indicated that, while she was enjoying the conversation, it was now at an end. “I enjoyed our conversation a great deal, Lady Tiaryn,” she added, offering a smile she did not feel.

With a deep curtsy, Tiaryn scurried back to her mother, silk skirts swishing. Faile watched them for a moment longer before tearing her gaze away and finishing the last of her wine. It would not do to talk too long to members of one House above another, not when she had barely been crowned for a day. While matters of state would be attended to on the morrow, the more shrewd-minded courtiers always tried to worm their ways into a monarch’s good graces, even with the pretence of introducing their children to court for the first time. She had seen it happen with Tenobia, and now she was experiencing it firsthand.

A servant refilled her glass, prompting Faile to take another sip. It was her fourth glass tonight, and she was feeling much too warm as a result, but it was making her feel adequately numb. Hopefully, it would be enough to last her for another hour.

Something touched her arm and and she stiffened, one hand already darting to the sash tied off at her waist where she had hidden one of her daggers. “Peace, sister,” Maedin chuckled, slipping back into the vacant chair beside her. His smile was as wide as his face. “Or is that Your Majesty now?”

Faile sighed, relaxing. “Only in front of others,” she murmured, grabbing his hand and squeezing it tightly. He took a sip of wine too, still on his first cup, then squeezed it back.

Light, how jealous she had once been of him when Father took him to the Blightborder two years ago. She was _still_ jealous of him, she realized. The trappings of duty had always pulled at her, no matter which way she went. Now she was a queen, and Maedin? Well, she imagined she would have him manage the family estates now, though she did not think he would favor such a task. Maedin had always been groomed to be a soldier, and had only bothered learning about clerks and paperwork after she had run off to Illian. Likely, he had been hoping their parents would come hauling her back so he could return to soldiering. Perhaps, when he was older, she could name him Marshal-General.

“I miss them too, Zarine,” he said quietly, the grin fading from his face as he took his hand back, laying it on an armrest. He suddenly appeared much older than his sixteen years. “But they died well, like true Borderlanders, and in the fight against the Shadow. No greater sacrifice could be asked from them.”

“I would have preferred them to live instead,” she admitted quietly, taking another sip of wine. “Father would hate ruling, but at least he’d be better suited at it than I am.”

Maedin’s brow furrowed. “Is that your third cup?”

“Fourth.”

“Light! Zarine, please.” He sat up, swivelling his body towards her and leaning both hands on the chair’s armrest. “Mother and Father would not want you to mourn them like this. They would want you to honor their deaths, like—”

“Stop calling me _Zarine_ ,” she hissed, setting her cup down forcefully. A few heads turned, but when she glared at them, they swivelled away and resumed their conversations with renewed zeal. “I _hate_ that name,” she added, more quietly. “You know that. Better than _most_ , I should add.” Maedin was the one brother who had teased her about reclining on silken cushions and charming pretty boys the longest, being younger than her, and the memory still stung.

“You shouldn’t drink so much,” he said instead, reaching for a fruit. Faile had to resist the urge to douse him with her wine. He had completely _ignored_ her words, brushing her aside like a weed. “Did you drink this much back in the Two Rivers with your husband? What was his name again... Perrin Goldeneyes?”

“I did not, and his proper name is Perrin Aybara.”

“Tell that to Artur Hawkwing,” he chuckled, biting into the apple. “Sounds to me like Goldeneyes will be the way everyone remembers him.” He rolled his eyes at Faile taking another sip of wine, then took another bite himself. “Were his eyes _really_ that color?”

“They _are_ golden,” she said, emphasizing the word and fixing him with a narrow-eyed stare, fanning herself furiously. “As golden as a wolf’s.”

“Shame I didn’t get to meet him,” he said almost wistfully, setting the apple core on his empty plate. “He sounded like someone Mother would have liked.”

Faile’s fan shut with a snap, the last shreds of her patience snapping right along with it. “My husband is still _alive_ , Maedin.” Her voice shook with emotion, perhaps with more sorrow than anger, though the latter was certainly more evident now. “Until his body is laid at my feet or until I receive proof that he is dead—some shred of cloth, or a lock of his hair, or what have you— _he’s still alive_. I forbid you to speak about him in my presence as if he is already dead until I have proof. Have I made myself clear, or shall I summon a servant to clean your ears free of wax!”

Light, it felt _good_ to shout. She had only released a fraction of her pent-up emotions, but even that small fraction made the weight on her shoulders feel a little lighter. Maedin blinked, his jaw dropping open. In fact, most of the nobles who were still nearby were staring at her. Abruptly, Faile wondered whether she should have kept a rein on her emotions a while longer, despite shouting and arguing being culturally acceptable. She did not want her people to think her as wild and uncontrollable as Tenobia had been.

Maedin suddenly laughed, breaking the awkward silence. “There she is,” he grinned, lifting his cup to her before taking a swallow. “I was wondering where my sister had been hiding all day.”

A chuckle swept through the onlooking nobles, some small cheers and claps accompanying them, before people returned to their meals and conversations, as if nothing strange had just taken place. To a Saldean, shouting was commonplace. In fact, Faile realized, her _lack_ of a temper all day had probably unsettled them worse than her sudden display of it.

Faile’s face colored, though any lingering onlookers might think it was just the wine. Light, he had strung her along like... like... like a bull by the nosering, as Perrin might have said. “You _wanted_ me to shout at you,” she accused, shaking her head. But she could not keep the smile off her face. It made her cheeks hurt so, she touched a hand to one of them. She had not smiled properly in days, perhaps weeks.

“Of course I did.” He reached for her hand again, squeezing it. “You’ve been so withdrawn, so _unlike_ yourself, it had me worried.”

“I feel like a thread pulled taut,” she admitted quietly, shoulders sagging a little. “Being pulled in one direction when I want to go in another. Light, all I want to do is find Perrin, but my people _need_ me. I have a responsibility to them I must uphold.”

Maedin smiled again, but this time it was softer, gentler. “You already think of us as your people,” he pointed out. “I think you will make a fine queen, sister. You’re a far cry from the girl who ran away from home.”

“Thank you, Maedin. I’m glad you’re—”

“Your Majesty?” a quiet voice interrupted hesitantly.

Faile turned, spying a young servant with wide eyes standing behind her chair, nervously licking his lips. He looked pale, paler than he ought to be despite his reddish hair, like he wanted to sick up or faint. Maybe a bit of both.

“Your Majesty, I deeply apologize for the intrusion, but an urgent matter requires your attention,” he began, just as quietly. It sounded like he had been trying to get it for some time now, too. “There’s a man at the door who insists on seeing you, no matter what I tell him, and he—”

The heavy doors suddenly burst open, a tall man dressed in black striding through. The servant by Faile’s chair squeaked and began to apologize, but she lifted a hand and rose to her feet. She recognized the weathered face, the broad shoulders. As well as the two pins on the man’s collar, a sword and a dragon each. No _wonder_ the servant boy had been scared out of his wits.

“Grady?” she said in surprise. “I thought you were at the Black Tower with your family.”

“I was, Your Majesty,” he said, bowing deeply. “I apologize for barging in like this, especially during your coronation banquet, but I don’t know how much time we’ve got. Queen Elayne sent me. Your Majesty, it’s—it’s about Lord Perrin. He’s been found.”

Faile’s throat tightened unexpectedly, her breath whistling through her teeth. It felt as if the world was closing in on her from all sides, like her vision had abruptly narrowed, grown sharper. She was aware of Maedin standing beside her, hovering worriedly.

“Is he...?”

Grady shook his head, forestalling her. “Worse, Your Majesty. I can’t say more here. You have to come see for yourself, and quickly.”

Worse? What could be _worse_ than death? She gathered her skirts and moved forwards, cursing the length of her train, but Maedin’s hand closed around her wrist despite propriety.

“Sister, you can’t just go marching off with a—with a _male channeler_ ,” he hissed into her ear. “What if it’s a trap? They can’t be trusted.” It seemed that Mazrim Taim still lingered prominently in the memories of Saldaeans, including her brother's.

Faile pulled her hand free, wrenching the heavy crown off her head. “Grady is an honorable man. If he says Perrin’s been found, I trust his word. I will—no, don’t argue with me, Maedin!” she shouted, waving the crown about. “This is about my husband, and burn me, but I am _going_ no matter what you or anyone else says! Matters of state begin at sunrise. I will go, and be back by then. I will!”

Maedin stared at her in stunned silence. In fact, everyone in the banquet hall was staring at her. Well, _let_ them stare! She had no official obligations as of yet, and by the Light, she would _not_ sit by idly if Perrin needed her.

She left the crown on her seat and hitched up her skirts, waving away servants who approached to offer assistance. “I am retiring for the night,” she announced loudly, before following Grady out of the room at a run. She heard a smattering of buzzing voices, more anxious than excited, before the doors slid shut behind her.


	4. Chapter 4

Although the sky was not pitch-black, it was still far too dark for Faile to see much of anything from the hilltop they stood upon, despite the ball of light Grady had formed for them to see by. It hovered behind them, bathing everything in a pale, otherworldly glow, but it only illuminated the immediate area. Faile could not see much else beyond a few feet—all rock and dry earth, without a patch of green in sight—though Grady assured her that the sun would rise soon enough in this corner of the world.

Wherever they were, it was cold. The wind whipped stray strands of her hair about, the braids coiled about her head now looser than she would have liked. She had not had time to change, either; Grady had ushered her through a gateway as soon as they were in the courtyard. Her slippered feet felt numb, and she had not bothered to send for a servant to fetch her a coat before leaving. She was Saldaean, though. She could take a little cold, and a little darkness, if it meant finding out what had happened to Perrin.

“I don’t understand, Grady.” She hugged her arms, turning to eye the Asha’man, and shoved a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Queen Elayne told you to bring me  _ here _ ?”

He nodded, rubbing his hands together. As an Andoran, he was probably colder than she was— _ if _ he could feel the cold in the first place, that was. She knew for a fact that channelers were able to keep themselves from feeling too hot or too cold, somehow. Which meant that Grady was rubbing his hands because he was nervous, or lying—or perhaps  _ both _ .

“A short while ago, we got an urgent summons that Queen Elayne needed someone to travel to Saldaea to bring you here, so I offered to do it for her. What with having been with you and Lord Perrin for so long, and Fager pitching in at Thakan’dar, it felt only right that I come.”

Faile would not pretend that she knew either Jur Grady or Fager Neald well. She had, after all, been Sevanna’s  _ gai’shain _ for nearly two months. But Perrin had grown fond of Grady once he warmed up to being around channelers, and had told her in passing that Grady had an honest man’s face. Faile supposed that Grady did look a good deal like a farmer, but that did not mean the man would not lie to her if he thought it would spare her pain. Andorans were odd like that.

“You said Perrin had been found,” she reminded him, her teeth chattering despite herself. “I don’t see what this place,  _ wherever  _ it is, has to do with Perrin.”

He glanced at her, as if seeing her for the first time, then began to unbutton his coat.  “I don’t know much about the situation myself, Your Majesty,” he admitted, focusing on undoing all his buttons. “Queen Elayne said that Lord Perrin was seen in northern Kandor an hour or so ago, and because she didn’t know how long he would be here, she wanted you to come immediately.”

So they were in Kandor, where there was still word of skirmishes taking place. Were they close to one of Ethenielle’s camps? Was Perrin trying to escape Shadowspawn? Was that why he might not be in the same place? All these questions and more ran through Faile’s mind, her heart fluttering in a staccato rhythm.

Grady draped his coat around her shoulders wordlessly, stepping back. She glanced up at him in surprise, but nodded in thanks. It was an odd gesture, one she had not been expecting from the man, but though she would not admit it out loud, she was grateful for the additional layer against the cold. Grady now stood in a simple linen shirt that ruffled in the breeze, and he did not seem bothered by the cold in the slightest.

“Wait a moment,” she said, frowning as she tugged the coat closed. “What do you mean by all that? You said back in Maradon that he was  _ worse  _ off than dead. What’s going on, Grady?”

“I didn’t say that, Your Majesty,” he said carefully, not quite looking at her. “I said—”

“Burn you, you  _ know  _ what you said!”

No, that was... Andorans did not quite understand that shouting was meant to vent off anger at the situation, not to slight others. It was clear from the way Grady’s eyebrows knit together and his gaze dropped, reminding her of a kicked dog. Much the same way Perrin’s face would look before he learned how to shout back at her, instead of keeping all his emotions bottled up inside.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, her hand a fist in the coat’s black material. “I’m just...”

“I know, Your Majesty.”

Grady did not look uncomfortable anymore, at least. Instead, he looked almost melancholy. Did he feel sorry for her, for what was to come? Or was he thinking about his wife and son, perhaps? Wondering how he would be feeling were he in her place? Light, the noose around her neck felt tighter by the second.

“I  _ need  _ to know, Grady,” she said once she found her voice again, more calmly than she felt. “Please, just take me to wherever he is. No more half-truths.”

He hesitated visibly, brow wrinkling. “You won’t like it, Your Majesty,” he warned, rubbing his hands together again. “It’s... it’s bad.”

“I don’t have to like it.” She just had to  _ know _ , burn her.

Nodding reluctantly, Grady squared his shoulders and began to climb down the hill. Faile followed after him, grimacing at feeling every single rock beneath her slippered feet, her dress snagging on them every so often. She should have changed into a pair of boots before leaving, burn her. She should have insisted on her coronation dress having divided skirts, too. She nearly stumbled twice over the uneven ground until Grady offered her his hand so he could guide her down the hill, apologizing for whisking her out of Maradon on such short notice.

It did not matter, though, and she told him as much after she bunched up her skirts in a fist to make walking easier. Her determination was so strong, she would withstand every stone underfoot, suffer every chilly breeze on the air, even brave her coronation dress being completely and utterly torn into shreds, if it meant finding out what had happened to Perrin.

Once they reached the bottom of the hill, there was no need for Grady’s globe of light anymore, as the pre-dawn twilight provided them with enough to see by. The sky was a multitude of pinks, blues and purples, and the lands that stretched out before them appeared barren, completely razed by all the fighting that took place here a scant few weeks ago.

“That can’t be right...” Grady muttered, shading his eyes.

What wasn’t right? Faile peered in the same direction as Grady, but all she could see was a wide, open plain. The Plain of Lances, perhaps, bordering Kandor and Saldaea? It was not too far from Maradon from what she remembered, though, so it did not make sense that it would already be dawn. But there didn’t seem to be anything amiss, except for the fact that there were no signs of life to be found—

“Is that a fire?” she asked, startled.

“That it is, Your Majesty,” Grady replied grimly, extending a hand into the air beside him. A vertical line opened in the air before it coalesced into a rectangular shape. Another gateway. “This should take us closer to get a better look at what’s going on.”

Faile’s brow furrowed, but despite her misgivings she followed Grady through, stepping out onto a scorched field a few hundred paces away from a small town or village. Or, more accurately, what  _ remained  _ of it.

Flattened buildings and heaps of rubble met Faile’s eyes, perhaps caused weeks ago when the Shadowspawn first invaded, but the smoke that unfurled high above their heads was prominent, thick and cloying in her nose. Tents on the outskirts of town, opposite them, had been set aflame, yellow and orange tendrils licking away at canvas and obscuring Faile’s sight of what was happening beyond. She could even feel their heat from where she was standing, so she offered Grady back his coat. What truly caught her attention though were the screams and shouts that filled the air, probably coming from somewhere beyond the flames, tangled amidst the guttural cries of Shadowspawn and the clash of steel.

“Perrin’s  _ here _ ?” she demanded, turning back to Grady. Her nose wrinkled at the smells of charred flesh, but her pulse quickened when she spotted a familiar banner. “There! That’s the Red Horse of Kandor.”

Which meant that Ethenielle’s forces  _ had  _ to be here, at least in part. Faile wouldn’t be surprised if they had only stumbled on a small force accompanying refugees. No doubt Ethenielle’s forces, and the forces Faile and other Borderlander nations had sent to accompany the Kandori Queen, were fighting on multiple fronts. The fight brewing a few hundred paces away from them was testament enough to that. She doubted Ethenielle herself would be at a small village in the middle of nowhere, though, which was a small mercy. Faile would hate for any more Borderlander rulers to lose their lives.

Grady stared at the flames, as if frozen in place. “I think so, if Queen Elayne’s informants were right,” he croaked, wetting his lips. He finished donning his coat and dropped his hands, but they twitched by his sides, as if they itched to pick up a sword. “Your Majesty, if the Kandori need aid...”

“Then we must go to them.”

“Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but you’re not outfitted for a battle.”

“I am a Borderlander, Grady.” She deftly pulled a knife from her sleeve, brandishing it in the air for a moment, before making it vanish again. Too flashy a thing to do, in truth, but it would drive her point home. “We’re  _ always  _ ready to do battle.”

Grady’s mouth tightened, as if he wanted to argue, but couldn’t find the words to. “Well, I was told to bring you here to see him for yourself,” he muttered cryptically under his breath, so low that Faile might not have heard him if she weren’t standing so close already, “so I suppose there’s nothing else to do but see him.” Raising his voice, he said, “All right then, Your Majesty. Follow me, but stay close.”

After using another gateway to shear off some time, they moved through the town, weaving through abandoned streets charred black weeks ago. The closer they got, the lighter the sky became, hues of pink being replaced by light blue. It reminded her of her promise to Maedin to be back by sunrise. Small chance of that now. The smells became stronger, and the sounds became louder, too; the stench of thick smoke and charred flesh mingled with the clang of swords and the snarls of Trollocs. Faile ignored all that, though, following after Grady as closely as possible. In truth, she knew she was little more than a sitting duck without divided skirts to facilitate her movements. Besides, the man’s senses were more heightened than hers were  _ and  _ he could channel. Staying near Grady was prudent, at least until they found Perrin.

The first few rows of tents were piles of ash by the time they reached them, but heat still scorched the air, and the flames had moved on to gorge on more tents. Faile felt some small relief that the ordered layout revealed this was a camp of soldiers, not refugees, though all the shouts and curses had already suggested as much. Unfortunately, she soon spotted corpses of civilians lying amongst soldiers and Trollocs alike. “Camp followers,” she whispered, and Grady nodded grimly as they moved on, towards the sounds of fighting.

In the span of a few breaths, they encountered soldiers fighting back against Trollocs, their swords clashing against maces and axes and whatever other weapons the inhuman brutes wielded. They were Kandori, judging by their forked beards, but Faile spotted a few braids and topknots amongst them too. A Trolloc sheared through a Shienaran, and another stabbed a Saldaean through the chest. There seemed to be far too many Trollocs compared to soldiers.

“Stand back, Your Majesty,” Grady cautioned before moving forwards, swinging a fist upwards. Flames from the nearby fires were siphoned through the gesture, crashing into a nearby group of Trollocs, cooking them almost instantaneously.

The remaining soldiers gawked at the sight of Grady before taking in the black coat he wore, nodding or lifting their weapons in thanks. They moved deeper into the camp to continue fighting, Grady starting after them and Faile close on his heels, a knife in one fist and her other fist keeping her skirts bunched up so she could keep up.

Naturally, they encountered more Trollocs that closed in on them, guttural screams issued from animal throats, but Grady’s weaves swept through their ranks again, and again, and again. Faile grew uncertain how long they fought, but she had used all but one of her daggers while guarding Grady’s back, and they had encountered a number of soldiers and noncombatants of varying ethnicities the deeper into the camp they went, even some who wore the Malkieri  _ hadori _ around their heads.

Abruptly, long, drawn-out howls rent the air, making her hair stand on end. Faile grabbed Grady’s arm. “Wolves,” she breathed, her heart pounding in her chest. Wolves had to mean that Perrin was close, perhaps even  _ alive _ . Oh, Light send that it was so.

“I don’t think—” Grady started to say, shaking his head, then sputtered when Faile darted forwards at a run, skirts hitched up to her knees. “Your Majesty! Wait!”

But Faile paid him no heed. Light, it was foolish to run off blindly in the middle of a battle, she knew it was. Her only means of defense was the small dagger still clutched in her fist, barely enough to do lasting damage to a Trolloc in close quarters. But Grady hadn’t been honest with her. First, he claimed something terrible had happened to Perrin, and then he refused to speak of it. There was something more going on here, something that made ice-cold fingers slide down her spine, but as long as Grady kept trying to shield her from whatever it was, she would remain in the dark.

Trollocs started after her, boots and hooves stampeding after her, but soldiers moved to intercept them. Tents were still burning, blood had mixed with mud. Her slippers were half-torn to shreds and were only slowing her down, so she kicked them off furiously before resuming her mad dash barefoot. She was getting closer, she knew it. The howls were louder now, and she could hear screams too.

A woman suddenly entered her field of vision and nearly crashed into her, her earring and baggy clothing obviously Kandori, her apron stained with blood. Her brown eyes were wide as dinner plates, as wide as any eyes she had seen, and she grabbed Faile’s forearms before she could continue running.

“No, my Lady, don’t!” she cried, tugging her back with more strength than her small frame belied. “It’s not safe! There’s a beast of a man there, butchering anyone he finds!” 

Faile tried to pull herself free, looking around at the same time to make sure no Trollocs ambushed them. “What, you mean a Halfman?” It would make sense for them to be here too. The various Trollocs bands did very little together as a group without a Myrddraal to crack the whip.

“No, not a Halfman! A  _ man _ !” the woman wailed, shoulders shaking uncontrollably. “A man with a hammer and eyes so terrible, they’re  _ worse  _ than the look of an Eyeless!”

Faile stopped struggling, feeling her stomach drop to her feet. “What color are his eyes?” she asked faintly, turning towards the Kandori.

“Terrible hounds heed his calls, as large as cattle, as horses!”

She shoved her dagger back into her sleeve and grabbed the woman by the shoulders, shaking her. “What color are his eyes?” she demanded, louder.

“G-G-Gold, my Lady,” she gasped, convulsing. “A Shadowspawn... in man’s flesh!”

Faile felt her heart stop, her breath hitch. No, it wasn’t possible. Perrin would  _ never _ ...

“He killed my Jorel, bashed his face in right before my eyes...” The woman sagged to the ground like a sack, covering her face with her hands to sob uncontrollably.

Normally, Faile’s heart would go out to the woman, but she was having difficulty standing upright herself right now. Black spots danced across her eyes, her dress feeling far too tight. She tried to breathe, but her breaths came in quick, short gasps. Too quick for her to regain her composure, to... to stop the thoughts swirling around in her head.

A Trolloc rounded a smoldering tent then, its eyes falling upon her. Its muzzle split apart into a feral grin, and it easily hefted a heavy, bloodstained cudgel as it ambled her way, as if it were merely out for a stroll.

_ My dagger, _ she thought sluggishly, her hand fumbling in her sleeve. Her fingers felt numb and slippery, unable to close around the handle properly.  _ Burn you, don’t just stand there and let it kill you! _

Fire suddenly sprayed around her like a curtain, burning the Trolloc to a crisp. Faile gaped down at it, watching its flesh melt away from its bones, unable to tear her gaze away from the stomach-churning sight.

“Your Majesty!” Grady skidded into view, sighing with relief. “Light preserve me, please don’t run off like that again! Queen Elayne charged me with your protection! If anything happened to you...”

Anger replaced the numbness that threatened to eat away at her from the inside out. “Did you know?” she croaked, her hands shaking by her sides. “Did you know that Perrin is  _ killing  _ people?”

Grady’s face turned ashen. “You  _ saw  _ him? Where?”

_ Oh Light, it’s true, _ she thought, her feet barely able to support her own weight. “You  _ knew _ ? You knew, all this time, and you didn’t even think to  _ tell _ me?”

He took a step back, shaking his head. “I didn’t want to believe it, Your Majesty. I thought they were rumors, just... just  _ stories _ . Everything thinks the worst of him, just because of his eyes, so—”

“You think I don’t  _ know  _ that?” she screamed, waving her hands about wildly. “You had no right to keep it from me, Grady, no right at all! He’s my  _ husband _ ! How would you feel if I kept something like this about your  _ wife  _ from you?”

Grady opened his mouth to say something, but a loud snarl interrupted them, drawing their attention towards it. A black hound stood there as large as a small horse, red saliva dripping from its teeth and its eyes shining like burnished silver. Burn her, it was a Darkhound! She must have attracted its attention with all her shouting.

With a muttered curse, Grady hurled a ball of fire towards the creature, hitting it in the face. But the Darkhound barely yelped with pain, despite the flesh that had melted off its face. It turned its head in their direction, as if sniffing them out, then leapt forwards with alarming speed, only... Grady remained rooted to the spot in shock.

Acting on instinct, Faile grabbed Grady’s arm and hauled him after her—the Darkhound connected with the ground where Grady had been standing heartbeats ago, tumbling over its head and onto its back—hauled him at a run, using her free hand to hoist her skirts up again. After getting over his initial shock, Grady needed no further urging and matched her speed, shooting a look over his shoulder at the pursuing Darkhound.

“It’s tougher than it looks!”

“Darkhounds can only be killed by balefire!”

Grady cursed again—he probably had known that, or did not know how to weave balefire, or both—hurling some weave or other back at the pursuing hound that began to gain on them. Faile peered over her shoulder just in time to see an immense wall of earth rise up out of the ground, but the Darkhound only swerved  _ past  _ it, heedless of the obstacle.

There were also, of course, more Trollocs to contend with. While soldiers fought on, and any who spied the beast coming attempted to cut it down, even Trollocs that eyed them with interest steered clear when they noticed the Darkhound.

Faile’s breath seared in her chest, her bare feet numb and heavy like lead. She could barely think, but she thought that was perhaps a good thing. Thinking about what that woman had said, about what Grady knew, would only make her legs—

She stumbled, falling face-first into the dirt, the wind getting knocked out of her. Dazed, she coughed and wheezed, trying to fill her lungs with air. Grady was no longer with her, though. She lifted her eyes and saw that he still running, until he seemed to realize that she had fallen behind. She saw him skid to a stop, turn around and stare at her in surprise. He started to move towards her, only... only he froze again, staring at some point above her. A dark shadow hovered over her. No, it didn’t hover. All it did was  _ pass  _ over her. She blinked dark spots out of her eyes, panting. The Darkhound had completely ignored her, resuming... resuming its chase after Grady instead.

The Asha’man’s eyes flitted between the Darkhound and Faile. Gritting his teeth, he hurled more fire at it, then turned around and ran. Leading the Darkhound  _ away  _ from Faile, who pushed herself weakly back up on her hands.

_ Grady, you fool, _ she thought, still gasping for breath as she rose to her feet. If he didn’t know the weave for balefire, there was no hope he would survive against the Darkhound, no matter how many times he burned it to char or cut it into pieces.  _ You noble, stupid fool. _

Footsteps sounded behind her and she whirled around, reaching for her dagger. Expecting to see a Trolloc, she was surprised instead to find a tall soldier, with tilted eyes and a hooked nose. A Saldaean soldier, one who stared at her in open-mouthed astonishment. She stared back uncomprehendingly, only realizing something was terribly, horribly wrong when the man’s knees buckled and he collapsed face-first on the ground. Blood pooled around him, the back of his skull having been caved in.

Faile’s eyes lifted to the man looming above the fallen soldier, her heart hammering against her ribcage. He was tall, broad-shouldered. Brown curls cascaded down his shoulders. His beard was short, but blood had seeped into it. In fact, blood drenched his entire front, fresh and glistening in the morning light. His large hammer, a leaping wolf etched onto its side, dripped with more blood, and pieces of flesh and other things dangled from it. But the worst thing of all were his eyes, shining like burnished gold in his blood-soaked face. Eyes that looked at her with no recognition whatsoever.

Light, those were not the eyes of her husband. Not anymore.

He took a step towards her and she took an involuntary step backwards. “Stay away from me,” she croaked, fumbling for the knife in her sleeve. Praying she had the courage to use it.

Surprisingly, he obeyed, which made her fingers still as they closed around the hilt, still hidden in her sleeve. “Perrin?” she ventured, cursing her weak heart. She had heard stories of Aes Sedai making puppets out of people. It stood to reason that the Shadow would not find such a thing beneath them, if Aes Sedai did it.

He took another step forwards, and this time she forced herself to stand her ground. There was an oddly curious glint in his eyes now, as if... as if he were struggling to remember something. “Perrin, it’s me.” Light, she was a fool if she thought that whatever it was that had been done to him would cease to be simply because of  _ her _ .

His hands began to tremble around the shaft of his hammer. He looked down at them as if in surprise, though Faile could not be sure. They began to tremble even more violently, his mouth forming into a grimace. Slowly, inexorably, he drew his arms back and swung the hammer towards her head.

She threw herself to the ground, gnashing her teeth together and flinging her dagger at him, not sure whether she wanted it to hit or miss. It found its mark, burying itself in his upper arm. He grunted in pain, nearly dropping the hammer, his left arm hanging uselessly by his side as blood began to seep through his sleeve. But he gripped the hammer even more firmly in his right fist, then swung it at her again in the span of a heartbeat.

Faile rolled out of the way, but the hammer drove itself into the ground, taking part of her dress with it, keeping her from rolling completely away. She tugged at the silk frantically, trying to tear it to get away, but it would not give.

Perrin was only inches away from her now, hovering above her and staring at her like she was... like she was a  _ stranger  _ to him, like little more than vermin to crush beneath his boot. “Perrin,  _ please _ ,” she panted. Her hands searched the ground for something,  _ anything _ , to use to defend herself. “It’s me, Faile. Your  _ wife _ . Light, don’t you  _ remember  _ me at all?”

He stilled, his face changing. Though his mouth still bore a grimace, lips peeled back into a feral snarl, eyes blazing with murderous intent, his features began to slacken. His eyebrows lifted, his mouth relaxing. Even his eyes changed, becoming... becoming something  _ familiar _ , something that made Faile’s heart ache at the sight of it, even as her fingers found a rock.

“Your Majesty!”

Faile whipped her head around to see Grady, looking worse for wear but very much alive. When she looked back at Perrin, his face had become that terrible mask again. He reached for her with a bloodied hand, and she slammed the rock into the side of his head, sending him reeling backwards.

Grady flung his hand out instantly, a gout of flame hurtling towards Perrin. Faile covered her face with her arms and tried to make herself smaller, but the heat that flashed over her felt unbearable, lasting so long she feared she was being cooked alive.

But the sensation eventually passed, and she uncovered her eyes slowly, panting. She sat up quickly, her heart leaping into her throat. “Perrin,” she gasped, looking around. No, he couldn’t be, no,  _ please _ —but there were no signs of ash at her feet, and his hammer was missing. “He’s gone?”

“Vanished, the same way he did back at Merrilor,” Grady grunted, limping towards her. It looked like he had sprained his ankle, or worse. Blood coated his leg. “We have to get out of here, Your Majesty, and fast. I didn’t lose that blasted hound.”

As if on cue, the creature’s howl broke the silence. Silence, Faile realized. She could no longer hear any fighting. Was the battle over, then? Had the Borderlander forces stationed here been completely overrun?

“I’ve got just enough strength left in me for us to Travel again, I think. I’ll—”

“Take me to Elayne,” she demanded. Chiad had told her about Perrin vanishing in such a fashion back in Mayene, too. Something like making gateways, apparently, only without having to use weaves to accomplish it. “She knew about this already, if you did, and I won’t tolerate her playing me for a fool. I intend to find out  _ exactly _ what’s going on.”

Grady looked as if he wanted to say something, but the Darkhound’s snarls, like bones grinding against each other, now sounded closer than ever. “Caemlyn it is, then,” he decided, quickly forming the weave.


	5. Chapter 5

Perrin materialized in the wolf dream, panting hard. Eddies of heat rolled off of his clothes, and the smell of singed hair was strong in his nose. He did not think that male channeler had burned him, though. He would be in pain, if he had. Right now, it was his left arm that was causing him trouble. It hung limp at his side, more numb than painful, blood trickling from his fingertips and splashing onto the ornate mosaic floor. She would not like that. Furrowing his brow, he concentrated on keeping the floor clean, and the few bloodstains that had formed vanished.

He walked towards the ornate silver throne, deciding to wait. The weight of the hammer he clutched in his right hand felt real, solid. More solid than anything else did in this chamber, as so far as he knew it did not reflect any place in the waking world. But staying too long here in the flesh, especially when he was injured, would be unwise. He hoped she came soon. She had not told him to seek her out, only to come here when he had finished his task or when he was in danger of dying. She had been very specific, and grew cross with him when he strayed.

Easing himself down onto one of the steps that rose to the throne room, he set the hammer next to him before shucking his coat off, inspecting the knife in his arm. It had gone in deep, but not all the way. Blood trickled from the wound steadily, though; if he pulled the knife out, it would likely start gushing. If things that were imagined here could last, he would have created a thread and needle. No, he would require Healing instead, another thing that would make her cross with him. She disliked it when he was careless.

Careless... he did not think he was usually careless, but he had been thrown off kilter by that woman in white, her tilted eyes lingering in his mind. He could not forget those eyes, no matter how hard he tried to.

_ She was familiar, somehow. _ Perrin did not know how, but she was. It tickled in the back of his mind, much in the same way when wolves tried to reach out to him. He leaned his head back against the throne, sighing. She was not at all beautiful. Her wide mouth, her high cheekbones, and  _ especially  _ her bold nose, were unflattering features. But something about her face tugged at him, only... only he could not see  _ why  _ it would. There was only room in his heart for one woman.

As if on cue, Lanfear suddenly appeared before him. Her dark hair hung down her back in waves, framing her pale face. The silver belt at her waist accentuated her curves, her white dress bringing out her features. She was beautiful, more than enough to steal any man’s breath away, but it was her night lily scent that he enjoyed the most.

She blinked at him in surprise, as if she had not expected to find him there so soon. “Perrin? What happened?” Her dress rustled as she knelt before him, frowning down at him.

It took him a moment to work out that she meant his injury. “There was a woman...” he began awkwardly.

Lanfear cut him off with a sigh, exasperated. “I’ve told you before, my wolf. Refusing to kill women is a weakness, charming as it may be. Next time, you won’t let that stop you, yes?”

He nodded quickly, feeling deeply ashamed that she had admonished him, then hissed sharply when she jerked the dagger out. Blood gushed from the wound in tandem with his heartbeat, but she touched her hand to his shoulder. An icy wave of Healing shot through him, knitting the flesh together. The blood remained, of course, clinging to his clothes. He found he did not mind the smell all that much, though.

“Thank you.”

“So polite,” she mused, inspecting the dagger with narrowed eyes. Something flashed across her face for a moment, making Perrin’s insides twist with worry that he had somehow angered her, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

She flicked her wrist, the dagger vanishing.

“Now... tell me, how is it that an injury like this brought you back? I thought I was clear when I told you to come here when your life was threatened or your task complete.”

He answered her readily, almost stumbling over his words in his haste to explain. He told her of the male channeler hurling fire at him when he had tried to kill the woman who used the knife on him, stressing that he had not seen the channeler all during the battle prior to that moment, and that there had been no signs of a channeler as far as he could tell up until that moment.

“I would have done it,” he hastened to add, licking his lips nervously at the way her eyes had narrowed during his explanation. “Killed her, I mean. I was just... trying to gather the nerve to.” He swallowed, dropping his gaze guiltily. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

It was not a lie. He had meant to kill the woman, he had. He would never lie to Lanfear about that. But a small part of him was glad that she had not asked him for more details about the woman. He did not think she would be happy if she heard that this woman, this Faile, had claimed to be his wife.

“Don’t fret, my wolf,” she hummed, running her fingers through his hair. “You did good today.  _ Very  _ good. I’m proud of what you accomplished.”

“You’re not angry then?”

She laughed, the sound much like bells. “Why would I be?” she asked, trailing her fingers down his face, threading them through his beard. The gesture struck him oddly familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.

“You look absolutely  _ wonderful  _ in red,” she purred, leaning in for a kiss.


End file.
